Starless Sky
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Emily lives recklessly, house to house, person to person. Vulgar, thieving, crass, and suddenly confronted with the choice to go home.


The motorcycle's engine roared into the vast black sea of the parking lot. It spanned out, dipping into a city smothered in lights. Red and blue and yellow. The wheels crunched against the pavement, slipping into the parking lot smoothly. It curved into the spot, grunting once, twice, and then falling silent. The engine sputtered clouds of thick black smoke.

Two people sat on the bike, a man and a woman. The woman swung her legs off, looking around and grinning. Even in the night, with the stars drowned out by the city, her golden hair and brilliant smile pierced the darkness.

"Thanks, honey." She said, kissing the man on his bristly, old beard, her ass sticking up. "I'll keep ya in mind."

"Thanks a million, Emily."

She laughed, patted his back, and turned away. Her jeans were curved around her back, her shirt tied over another, striped, shorter one. Her back and toned stomach were visible. She carried a faded brown bag over her shoulder, vanishing into the night.

. . .

3AM, SATURDAY

Another man pried his eyes open, glancing around the room through his half-sealed together eyelashes. He yawned widely, feeling his wrist for a watch that was no longer there. He figured that he must have left it on the nightstand.

He pulled himself up. He was a dignified businessman.

He looked around, baffled that it was still dark outside, and even more baffled that there was a warm imprint of a body next to him: and no watch.

. . .

EMILY

She sat on the stool in the diner in the town where no one knew her name, yet. Her legs were spread open, exposing tattoos all up her thighs, inviting someone new into her life, someone knew to rip off.

She laughed loudly, accentuated her drawling accent, and shifted her shirt often: so everything was just on the tip of visibility.

"Hey." Another guy sat down next to her. He was too old. She glanced him up and down, patted his shoulder, and swung her back to him.

"Hey." He repeated.

She turned to him, frowning. He had an accent, something European.

"What?" She asked.

"You dropped this." He lifted up his hand, and pinched in it was a napkin with her name, her lipstick, and not her number on it. She snatched it up, stuffing it in the pocket of her jeans.

"Thanks a billion." She said.

"No problem, Emily." The man fiddled with his milkshake straw, looking shifty. She stirred her soup, took a gulp, and opened her mouth to say something. "Oh, you're going to ask how I know your name." He overrode her.

Her lips shut tight. "No."

"Then?" He deflated. He had a grand explanation for her: well, I heard you say it a couple times with a wink, and only once say a different name. I deduced, darling.

"Do you have a spare dollar? I can't afford this meal and I have bigger eyes than stomach - and wallet." She laughed.

"No."

He took another long sip.

She stared. "Honey, just a pair of bucks. I can pay you back. You're old, but I can make an exception."

He ran a hand through his sand-coloured hair. "How about no?"

She shrugged. "I'll find another guy. Anyone would fuck a broad like me. What's wrong with you?" She said tartly.

"Nothing?"

"What's your name?" She asked quickly, shoving each topic aside like it was another meaningless fan letter to her bloated ego.

He paused. Truth? Truth or no truth?

"Arthur."

"Nice."

"Nice?"

"What the hell did you want me to say? 'Terrible, I want another name!'" She said, opening and closing her hand like a duck bill.

Arthur shrugged. "I was simply not expecting that."

"Raisin."

"Huh?"

She laughed, leaning down, letting the bar light catch her breasts. Arthur didn't notice.

"So, how's life?" She asked, peering at his hand, finding a ring, and making a mental "aha!".

"It is."

"It is what?"

"It simply is."

Emily frowned again, her rouged lips turning into a still pretty smear. She placed her hand on her thigh, rubbing the smooth skin. Her heels kicked the back of her chair.

"So."

"So?"

"Those dollars."

"Oh my god." Arthur exasperated, shaking his head. "I am _absolutely_ and _certainly_ not giving some girl money for something she already paid for."

"What?"

"I saw you. I am quite intelligent, young lady."

"No, whatever. I just want something. A tiny thing. Be my sugar daddy for a night and I make you forget all about that shiny thing on your finger." Emily said, pointing at it with hungry eyes.

Arthur laughed. "I will forget about it, since you'll steal it."

"Be my salt daddy then." She mocked, realising he was far to0 quick for her, and yet she had no patience for him.

"Don't you have an itch between your legs, old man?" Emily asked. "I sure do. I'm feeling like shoving a great old British fuck up me!"

"No you don't."

Emily shook her head. She didn't know what to do. Arthur turned away. He knew what she was trying. Vulgar mouthed hookers knew that some men, some unhappy men, found that irresistible and could grab her and take her home then and there at that one cuss.

Of course, Arthur was happy and he was married. And, moreover, he wasn't exactly all there.

Emily finished her soup with a satisfied slurp and set it down. "Thanks, dollface." She said as a woman walked by and picked it up. Emily received a friendly scowl.

"Know her?" Arthur asked.

"Fucked her son, uncle, husband, and cousin."

"No but really."

Emily sighed. "Ok, fine, and her sister. Do you need any other info? I can detail you all the juicy facts of all the juicy bodies in all the juicy plays."

"Stop saying that."

"What? Sex?"

"No, 'juicy'. You've beaten that poor adjective into a pulp. It has lost all meaning."

"Oh, smart are we? Why am I even sitting here still." Emily said, voicing Arthur's own concern.

Arthur shrugged, finished his milkshake, and paid the woman at the counter. He stood up. Emily fished around in her pockets, pulling out a napkin. "Call me?"

"That's the exact paper I gave you." Arthur said.

"Alright, then, don't call me. Talk to me. Right now."

"Why?" Arthur asked.

Emily stood up, slamming a couple crinkled dollars on the table, and grabbed his arm. She dragged him out the door. On the way, she was spanked three times and twice groped. She laughed all the while, encouraging it. Once outside, on of her breasts hung out and her jeans were halfway down her ass.

"So?" She said, wriggling. Her eyes flicked to his ring finger.

"Are you an addict or a kleptomaniac?" Arthur asked. "Put your clothes on."

"Off?"

"On."

"You said off, right?"

Arthur sighed.

Emily adjusted her clothes slowly, hoping he'd get a view. But his eyes were up towards the sky, staring into its blind face, searching for stars that weren't there. Emily felt disappointed. She didn't like him, no, and he was pretty much on point with his observation. So why did she still want to talk to him?

Oh, that's right. She was bored.

"I can do it now in front of you, if you don't like doing it."

"Lay off, will you?" Arthur snapped.

Emily stopped, her hand on her hip.

"So it does offend you." Emily said.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm not inviting you on an adventure through my personal life."

"Then?" Emily asked impatiently.

Arthur dug into his coat pocket. For a moment, Emily expected him to pull out a gun or a knife. Instead, he pulled up an envelope, with three names on it: the names of her siblings. Her heart pounded. She wished it was a knife.

"Here." He held it out.

"No thanks, I'm good." Emily said. All her excitement drained from her.

"They're concerned for you." Arthur said softly.

Emily stepped back, her face flushing hard through her makeup. Tears dangled on her mascara, bleeding black. She shivered. "How did you find me? I'm running away."

"I didn't find you. I knew you'd be in this area, I crossed my fingers, and here you are."

"I was in Vegas last week." She lied.

"Sure you were."

Emily had her hands around her body.

"No, I don't want to read it. I don't want their money."

"They just want you to go home." Arthur explained.

Emily bit her lip. "I made bad choices. They shouldn't get involved."

"Why?"

"I don't want them to get in trouble, or deal with me, or get my enemies hunting them. As far as anyone is concerned, I have no last name and I'm just a walking sex doll with a biting attitude."

Arthur shook his head. "No, why do you make bad choices?"

Emily looked towards the sky. "Can't help it. I don't have kids yet, which is nice. Wrecks a gal down there." She swallowed, hard. "And… I want to steal, and be crazy, and live. I'm running away from death."

"Oh." Arthur didn't fully understand. He approached her, slipping the envelope into her hand.

She held it reluctantly. She expected him to pin her against the wall, to dig his hands down her jeans, to feel her, to make her stop feeling. She wasn't addicted to the act, she told herself, she was addicted to the bliss of not feeling guilt: of not feeling anything, of being free of all but the hormones ringing through her body. To separate body from mind. So I can float, so I can be gone.

"You're trying to escape the wrong way." Arthur said, hugging her.

She froze.

He let go.

Her nipples were hard and pricking through her shirt.

He didn't notice that, either.

"Make your choice, dear. I can't make it for you." He said, and turned away into the night.

. . .

TOUCH

Emily felt it on her from behind. She felt big hands on her breasts, between her legs, on her lips. She felt wetness, she felt heart pounding. She felt the buoyancy of emotion. She let them enter her, split her wide open, see her for the slob she really is.

That is, if they were there. She rejected each invitation and lay in her ratty motel room, the envelope on her bare stomach, her hand between her thighs, and a fan whirring incessantly.

She was wet, but with tears.

Should she read it? Should she not?

Who was she anyway. She rolled over. It was hard saying no to those big guys, but her heart was finally too heavy to be lifted by empty hormones.

. . .

Home

 _Dear Emily,_

 _Wherever you are, whenever you find this, please know we love you. We yelled at you that day you decided to express your vulgarities at home - sorry for saying it like that, mom is dictating this letter - and we forgive you. You need a good life._

 _Come home._

. . .

Emily left it on her bedside. She frowned out the window, seeing couples behind faded curtains.

This was her life, not theirs. She was torn. She closed her eyes, resting her chin on her palm. She finally understood why she wanted to talk to Arthur.

She remembered him.

. . .

A group of children ran up to Arthur, who had open arms and a story book. Something like golden light covers this memory, making it beautiful and sweet and permanent. It was warm, smelled of hot chocolate, rang of pleasant music.

. . .

MEMORY, ANOTHER ONE

Even when Emily made mistakes and her mother screamed at her, favoured her siblings, Arthur would comfort her. She broke a lamp, he told her that there needed to be a new light anyway. She stole bird seed from a shop. He made her give it back, and then showed her birds in the sky, saying they deserve kindness as well.

It didn't stop her.

She failed him.

. . .

She lay on her bed, and thought for a long time.

Finally, she got up. She put on her jacket, and threw the letter in the trash.

* * *

 _Not my anime, not my business._


End file.
